Penance
by DelightfullySpiffy
Summary: Matt Rutherford is a Messed-Up Kid with a past so deplorable he takes drastic measures to survive the present. He thinks he's got it under control. But when his catastrophic secret is revealed, his whole world is shattered. Angsty! Trigger: self-harm


Penance is a Matt-centric two-shot. Part two will be posted in the near future.

Disclaimer: Glee is not mine. If it was, there would be a lot more angst and everyone would just sit around crying. And that's why I'm not a T.V producer. Huzzah for the rest of the world, sadness for me. No profit, no copyright infringement. Comprendo?

**A/N: **I was inspired by the Glee Angst Meme, so I spent about five hours hammering this out. I'd love to hear what you think. Brutal honesty much appreciated.

Oh, and check out my other story, A Parody of Laughter. Yes, I know it's been over a month since I've updated it. No, it's not abandoned. And yes, a new, long chapter will be out soon.

Thanks for reading!

* * *

It is a game.

Ten seconds with the cigarette lighter for each time he does something stupid.

An inch with the needle for every time his parents look right through him.

An "x" with the razor blade for each time he does something wrong.

A trip to the toilet with his fingers for every time he feels fat.

A slap to the face for each time he looks in the mirror.

A bite on the lip for every time he feels worthless.

A carving with the knife for each day that goes by.

Because as long as it is a game he is still okay. It is predictable, his little game, and though it is starting to run his life he doesn't much mind.

He doesn't know if he'll be able to go to college, because of the hospital bills that come like clockwork every month. He doesn't know if he'll be able to get a job, because this is Lima. He doesn't know if his parents will ever forgive him, if he'll ever forgive himself.

But he does know that he will be punished for everything he does wrong.

And that makes him feel better. Better is a relative term, though, like irreparably brain-damaged is. Still alive, but dead to the world. So his game lessens the despair, in a way. It's not something that'll ever leave him, but the game numbs it, numbs him so he doesn't think about dying.

Though sometimes, when he is in one of his moods after the pointless visiting of his sister, Matt still thinks about ending it.

The thing that always stops him from going to the noose he has set up in his closet for when the time is right is that he doesn't want to take both of the lives of his parents' children. That wouldn't be fair, and though Matt has long given up on fairness in the world he just can't hurt his parents even more than he has already.

He can't be that cruel, despite that he knows his parents wished he had been the one to be so irrevocably damaged of his own stupidity, not his sister.

Though his parents think that their son and themselves have nothing in common, they really do.

Because he wishes the same thing.

Does he still love his parents, after how they've treated him? He doesn't know. He can't feel anything now. Hasn't for the ten months and three days since the accident.

Do his parents still love him? He doesn't know. Maybe they'll start to again when they finally decide to pull the plug on his sister. But then they'd start grieving all over again, only this will be ten times worse because she's actually dead, and there will be no more hope that she'll wake up.

He knows they blame him. They've as much as said it. Jess was perfect, and he was just average. And now, he's so sub-par that they can barely look at him.

Or talk to him, or acknowledge that their one remaining child still exists, that he didn't die or end up like Jess.

Matt wonders if they know about his game, but don't care enough to do something about it.

He wouldn't put it past them. Maybe they're hoping that he will kill himself, so their grief over Jess won't seem as irrational, so that they can grieve enough for two children but only direct it at their daughter. Perhaps they're happy that he hurts himself. God knows they think that he deserves some kind of punishment for doing that to their daughter, his sister.

After the accident, a nurse had to remind them that their son survived, and one of the hospital's social workers almost forced them to leave Jess' bedside to visit him.

Matt thinks that seeing their blatant unconcern for him and their anxiety to get back to Jess, and how they didn't even tell him that they were glad he didn't die and that they loved him was the final straw.

His first conscious punishment happened before his parents had even left the room. Matt had dug the fingernail of his thumb into the fragile skin by his wrist because their appearance had ripped off the blanket covering reality, and showed him just what he had done. His wrist was so pure, so pristine then, like fresh snow. He had kept pushing and pushing until he felt something give and the blood bubble up. It hurt-god, it hurt-but it didn't feel bad and he relished the fact that though his sister had their parent's love he was the one who could still feel _something_.

He hated himself for thinking that. So he did it again, and this time it had felt like punishment. So he did it again, and again, and again.

And no one noticed. And no one does now, either.

That's because hiding it is part of the game.

He'll lose if any one figures it out, because he's not stupid; he knows that he won't be allowed to do it anymore if they find out.

And if that happens, he has long since decided that he would kill himself. Because he can't live without the punishment, without the pain, without the release.

And it wouldn't be so bad, really. Death isn't something he's afraid of-it's the living that scares him. He's only been surviving since the accident.

And surviving isn't working out too well. Obviously.

The only time he really thinks about all of this is when the blood is still running down his arms. Once it stops, he's numb again. But the clarity of these moments makes it impossible to not think about the events of the last ten months.

He looks down at the blood soaking into his jeans to try to distract himself from everything.

He likes the color. Especially the way it looks on the tile floor. And how he can't see his reflection in it. But it's not something he can hide. Not something he can clean up. And it's the most conspicuous thing on the planet.

It's going to be a long time with the lighter, later.

Because slitting his wrists in the empty Glee room was very stupid, though he hasn't been thinking clearly for awhile now.

But he felt like he was going to burst into tears when Melanie Fisher talked about her how she loved the bond she had with her twin sister in Spanish class. That's how he knows something is wrong, why he ran out of class, why he's still here after his punishment.

He hasn't cried since it happened. Except for now, because his cheeks are wet and though he wants to deny it it's obvious that he is.

It's disgusting, and Matt would wipe his face, but he's cradling his bleeding arms with his favorite knife on the riser step beside him, in the only embrace he's been getting since the accident.

He's facing the door, and that's how he sees the face of Mr. Schuester through the little window.

That paralyzes him. He doesn't breathe, the only movement the steady drips of blood flowing down his arms and onto his jeans.

The door opens, and Mr. Schuester storms inside, taking in the tears and the blood and the knife.

Matt can see it on his face when it dawns on the man just what he is seeing.

"_Matt_," Mr. Schue croaks, as he stares at Matt and Matt stares at him. Nothing else besides that one word happens.

Then either Mr. Schuester's teacherly instinct or his basic humanity kicks in, and he rushes over to his student.

He hesitates, looking from Matt's arms to Matt's face, before grabbing Matt's right forearm.

Matt knows he doesn't want this. And that simple thought frees him from his self-induced paralysis and he tries to break out of his teacher's grip on his arm.

But he's weak from the blood loss. Weak from sorrow, weak from pain, weak from life. But mostly from the blood loss.

He can't stop the man from seeing _everything_. It terrifies him. And makes him want to cry.

It's almost humorous how pathetic he is. So pathetic that he just gives up.

Matt closes his eyes. If he can't see what's become of his reality, maybe it's not happening at all. And this can't be happening. It just can't.

He can feel Mr. Schue rolling the sleeve of his right arm up, and then he hears the gasp from what his teacher obviously sees. The wounds upon wounds upon wounds upon scars upon scars upon scars.

Though it's been almost a year, he still feels a bit sick when he looks down at the utter mess on his arms. Matt can only imagine what Mr. Schue's reaction will be.

Then he doesn't have to imagine. The man gags, and Matt feels disgusting.

The shame finally hits him like a dump truck filled with lead going sixty, and his next inhalation is more of a choked sob.

That makes it worse, and the accompanying exhalation is definitely a sob.

And then his shoulders are shaking as he tries not to break down in front of the only person he respects.

Mr. Schuester wraps something around the wrist in his hands, and then takes the other one and does the same thing, letting the arms go to drop in Matt's lap when he's done with them.

And then he does something unexpected.

Matt feels Mr. Schuester wrapping his arm around his shoulders. Then the man gently tilts him over until Matt's torso and head are resting on Mr. Schuester's torso and shoulder. With a start, he realizes that the man is hugging him.

Hugging him.

Hugging _him._

_Hugging _him.

The first real human contact he's had in months.

Matt totally loses it.

_His life _comes out in the shape of his tears and in the form of his gut-wrenching sobs.

He bites his lip and tries to stop, because this is unspeakably humiliating. He just wants to get away.

But he's trapped, and not just by Mr. Schuester's arm.

Because someone has found out. A teacher, no less, one who's bound by law to tell other people.

It occurs to him, then, that this means that he's going to have to kill himself.

It's not a reassuring notion.

So maybe he doesn't want to die. But he doesn't exactly want to live, either. Not like this.

He doesn't know what he wants.

Matt just doesn't know.

Mr. Schuester tells Matt that he's going to take him to the hospital. Matt feels numb, and doesn't say anything.

The teacher makes a phone call to someone named Emma and tells her to tell Mr. Figgins that he's leaving with a student for a Glee-related thing. Matt vaguely wonders if he's going to get his favorite teacher fired. He really doesn't want to add another thing to the list of horrible things he's done. It's already too long.

Somehow Mr. Schue gets him to stand up and stumble out the side door that leads straight to the teacher's parking lot.

Walking to Mr. Schue's car, with the teacher's jacket draped over his shoulder's, Matt doesn't know how he accepted this without even trying to persuade the man to just let him go home

Matt mulls it over as the idea to make a run for it floats through his brain. He quickly dismisses the idea, and himself for being so stupid as to come up with an idea like that, because he can't even walk straight or faster than a toddler because he's so weak from the blood loss.

"Ten seconds with the lighter," Matt says, faintly. He doesn't even realize he said it until Mr. Schuester stops walking and looks at him with a horrified expression.

"_What_ did you say?" the man asks in a scarily-controlled voice. "Ten seconds...with the lighter?"

He obviously puts two and two together because he suddenly reaches out and grabs Matt's arm, flipping it over so he can see the underside of the boy's forearm not covered by the makeshift bandages. Matt has no chance to resist before Mr. Schuester looks over the tiny mountain chains of scars, the red rivers of cuts, the ponds of bruises. And scattered throughout this geography are the small, uniformly shaped burns, in various stages of healing. Bingo, Matt thinks.

"_Matt_," Mr. Schue says, dropping the arm and running a hand through his hair, the way he always does when he's upset.

Embarrassment coupled with deep, deep ignominy floods Matt, and he hates Mr. Schuester for it. He hasn't felt this awful in weeks.

The man audibly sighs, then keeps walking until he reaches the car, Matt reluctantly following.

Mr. Schue doesn't say anything more as they get into his car. Matt takes the backseat. He doesn't want to make this any more awkward than it needs to be. And because he doesn't want anyone to see him in a teacher's car in the middle of the day. That would definitely mean questions, and questions are definitely bad.

It hits him, then, for no reason at all, that he's really going to the _hospital _with his _teacher._ Reality is not Matt's friend. Not that he has any at all. Not that anyone would want to be his friend. Mentally-ill (he's admitted he was one to himself long ago) people generally don't make for the best of comrades. Neither do students.

A wave of guilt crashes him. Mr. Schuester could lose his job over this, for this sacrifice (waste) of time and gas and energy. Matt hates being inconvenient.

"I'm sorry," he blurs from the backseat, then, flustered, fiercely digs at one of the scabs on his arms out of habit. It really hurts-fuck, it hurts-and he whimpers. Pathetically.

Mr. Schuester glances at him through the rear-view mirror, but doesn't say anything.

The silence in the car becomes unbearable.

His teacher asks him for the number to reach his parents, and Matt automatically tells him and then feels stupid enough for informing the man. His parents don't care. Ten seconds with the lighter.

Before Matt can tell Mr. Schue to not even bother, the man's talking and listening and hanging up and telling Matt that his father's going to meet them at the hospital.

Matt really doesn't believe that at all.

He feels like a very, very horrible human being for maybe wishing that Mr. Schue would have crashed the car when he was talking. He went to driver's ed; he knows what's supposed to happen when a person drives and talks on the phone at the same time.

But it's just his luck, of course, that Mr. Schuester's very good at multi-tasking.

And then the awkward silence drapes over the car once more.

Matt's seriously grateful that the hospital is only ten minutes away, else he'd be honestly and seriously considering jumping out of the car, because he _hates _awkward silences. The first month after the accident was an awkward silence.

Mr. Schuester obviously believes that this is not an appropriate time for show tunes and ballads and whatever the hell else the man listens to because the radio is left off. At this point, Matt would have welcomed those songs with open arms. He's that desperate.

Finally, after Matt thinks he's bitten fully through his lip because it's bleeding pretty severely and very painfully and though he hates the taste of blood it somehow comforts him, with that thought kind of freaking him out a little, Mr. Schuester's car parks at the hospital.

To his utter surprise, his father is standing there in the waiting room, looking out of place in one of his expensive suits.

Matt's heart jumps a bit. An unfamiliar emotion knocks softly on his throat, but he squeezes the hope down. He doesn't trust his father to follow through.

It's best to not get his hopes up.

Hi father's looking right at them, but gives no indication that he recognizes his own son. Matt isn't sure what this means.

The man's talking on the phone. The other person on the line says something to make the man stand up straighter, and even from this distance he can see his father's eyes light up.

Matt's heart sinks, then. It's devastating. Matt sways, a bit.

His father ends the call and briskly walks towards the two. Matt is still standing in the doorway.

"Jess just showed a reflex," his father says as way of greeting, then roughly pushes past his son without a second glance.

Matt doesn't say anything. But he feels the harsh rejection, and knows this false alarm will just cause more hurt for him.

They always do. And since hasn't been one for two months, it'll just make it worse. Matt wants to cry.

Mr. Schuester just looks at him, as if he's trying to gage Matt's reaction. Matt tries to put on a face of stone.

If his teacher tries to play psychologist, Matt might smack him.

"Who's Jess?" Mr. Schue asks.

The unexpected and unwanted question causes Matt to snap. He doesn't mean to, but it happens. He's just so tired of everyone only caring about Jess.

"She's my sister. She's been brain-dead for the past ten months. I made her like that," Matt says with biting acridity. "Any questions?"

Without waiting for an answer to his redundant question, Matt finds a chair and melts into it, slouching over with his face in his hands.

He can't do this anymore. He really, truly can't.

With his thumbnail, Matt tears into one of the scabs on his left arm, like his neighbor's jack russell terrier after a rodent.

The surge of pain he welcomes half-heartedly. It for fuck's sure hurts enough for Mr. Schue to hear his sharp intake of breath.

And it doesn't really help, actually. All it does is make his teacher see what his student is doing .

Mr. Schuester grabs his arm.

"Matt, don't do that," he says unconvincingly.

Matt's annoyed. He's not a stupid child to be disciplined with a finger shaking.

"Do what?" he asks, very much sarcastically. "This?"

Matt does it again. But harder.

He knows he's asking for it, knows that he shouldn't be doing this because of what Mr. Schue did for him.

But he's tired. And he's got a massive headache. And he feels sick to his stomach. And he thinks he's entitled to be a bit of an asshole sometimes. Desperate times call for desperate measures, and all.

Mr. Schuester is not amused.

Then the scab-less cuts start to bleed, and that draws attention to the emergency room people, whatever they're called. It doesn't much matter.

What matters is that because of the blood they take him right to a room. Probably so he doesn't infect all the little old ladies with HIV, or something like that. The ER people don't like to take risks.

Mr. Schuester goes with him. And it annoys him that Mr. Schue thinks he's now Matt's cheesy protector-like guardian angel.

But before he has a chance to say something the nurse starts cleaning his arms. And by the love of Pete it hurts like fuck. It's like double the pain from when he actually inflicted the wounds.

If she's repulsed, she doesn't show it.

Then the doctor comes in, along with a fucking psychologist, and the doctor examines his arms and then _aks Matt to undress so the rest of his body can be examined._

Matt is not amused. He wants to throw something at the probable-pervert but out of the corner of his eye he sees Mr. Schue shake his head. So he takes off his shirt, and that's it.

But the shirt is good enough for the doctor, because there's a big ol' nasty cut there that the guy can't wait to get his hands into.

And during the whole process the psychologist is asking him stupid questions that he doesn't bother to answer. If Mr. Schuester wasn't there, Matt thinks that he'd probably deck the lady, if he was the type to hit ladies in a hospital setting.

Finally the examination is over, and they tell him that the laceration on his stomach is pretty severely infected, so he's going to have to spend the night, because they need to clean and stitch and make sure he's not going to die.

Matt promptly tells them to stuff it, because there's no way in hell he's going to stay over night in a hospital.

If he's honest, they creep the fuck out of him. Bad, bad, bad memories he has of hospitals.

When they insist, he makes the split second decision to make a run for it.

And that really works out well, because he gets about a hundred feet down the hall before he collapses.

He's not sure what happens next. But it's something pretty epic, he supposes.

Because when he wakes up he's in restraints.


End file.
